


Don't Kick a Man When He's Down

by My_Alter_Ego



Category: White Collar
Genre: Bypass Surgery, Gen, Heroic Act, Hurt/Comfort, Tempting Options, cardiac arrest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-20 10:30:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17620769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Alter_Ego/pseuds/My_Alter_Ego
Summary: A catastrophic medical emergency unfolds and Neal finds himself at a crossroads.





	Don't Kick a Man When He's Down

**Author's Note:**

> I’m putting the time frame of this story somewhere shortly after Season 1 ended.

Neal’s phone was buzzing incessantly on the small table beside the bed. The con man ignored the irritating noise and buried his head deeper under the covers to shut out both the sound and the slanting rays of morning sunlight coming through the glass doors of his loft. Finally, the little mobile stilled, but the silence didn’t last very long. The annoying thing set up its monotonous droning just a minute later. Neal moaned and covered his ears until the intrusion ran its course and there was blessed silence once again. Apparently, the third time was the charm because a disgruntled Neal finally snaked an arm up from beneath the blanket and groped blindly until he had the phone in his grasp.

“What?” he managed to hoarsely rasp out a question.

“Neal, how come it took you so long to answer?” Peter immediately asked. “What, exactly, were you doing?” he continued suspiciously.

“Sleeping,” the CI muttered grudgingly.

“At 9 am on a beautiful Saturday morning?” Peter sounded incredulous.

“I may have been up late last night, Peter, not that it’s any of your business what I was doing since I was doing it in my own home which is within my radius.” Neal grumbled.

“Neal, you seem a bit testy. Are you hung over?” Peter demanded to know.

“Course not,” Neal claimed, although that was less than an accurate statement.

Usually, Neal never lied to Peter, but, really, this was such a small, insignificant untruth it shouldn’t even count. The real story was that Mozzie had come over last night to cajole Neal into playing backgammon. The game was the bald man’s new passion and, being obsessive-compulsive, he insisted they play and play and play until he had perfected his expertise. The two opponents had finished off several bottles of wine during the marathon that ended after 3 am. Neal still felt fuzzy, lethargic, and, right now, in need of a bathroom.

“Peter, just tell me what you want,” Neal pleaded.

“I want you to get up, get dressed, and come over here to my place,” Peter made his answer succinct, but then thought to add a caveat. “Wear old clothes, not some designer jeans and a polo shirt with a logo. Put on some sweat pants—wait, do you even own sweat pants, Mr. GQ?”

“Why would that be necessary?” Neal asked in dread.

“Because El’s away in the Berkshires catering some wedding or bar mitzvah or some big fancy shindig. She won’t be home until Monday, so I want you to come over so that we can do some stuff together. C’mon, Buddy, it’ll be fun!” Peter sounded way too chipper.

“Peter,” Neal sighed tiredly, “it sounds like you’re bored and at loose ends, but, seriously, Partner, I don’t want to be your play date. And if you’re thinking about enlisting my help with any DIY projects, count me out. I am a confidential informant, not a plumber or a carpenter.”

“We can do other stuff,” Peter promised.

“What kind of stuff?” Neal asked, still holding out for clarification.

“Neal, you do not get to question an order given by your handler,” Peter intoned sternly. “Just suck it up, Buttercup, and haul your ass out of bed. I’ll be waiting because you’re now on the clock and it’s ticking.”

“Sometimes I hate you, Peter,” Neal replied like a pissed off teenager as he quickly pushed the disconnect button. He huffed out a frustrated breath and slid from the bed like Lazarus emerging from his tomb. A stinging hot shower partially alleviated his throbbing headache, but he gulped down two aspirin and a bottle of water for good measure. He then brewed some Italian roast and added it to an insulated tumbler before calling a cab.

Peter was, indeed, awaiting his arrival because the door opened before Neal even raised a hand to knock. The FBI agent was dressed like a middle-aged jock in track pants and an old college t-shirt. He took in Neal’s apparel and had to make a comment. “You look like James Dean in that old movie, _Rebel Without a Cause,_ just before the famous drag race scene.”

“You said to dress down,” Neal groused as he swept a hand across his body highlighting well-worn jeans with tears at the knees, a paint-spattered tank top, and a distressed black bomber jacket. “So, this is me doing your bidding, Master. Now, just tell me the reason for the costume party.”

Peter didn’t answer right away. He simply pivoted and snagged a basketball from the couch and dribbled it twice on the hardwood floor. “We’re gonna play some hoops for starters,” he said with a grin. “There’s a court not far from here, and since it’s fairly early, we’ll probably have it all to ourselves.”

Neal rolled his eyes. “The only species that should get excited about chasing a ball is Canis Lupus Familiaris, which happens to run around on four legs wagging its tail. Why don’t you take Satchmo along instead of me?”

“Very funny, Neal,” Peter remarked wryly. “Look, Buddy, I lead a pretty sedentary life for five days out of every week while I sit behind a desk. El claims I eat way too much red meat and drink too much beer. She wants me to begin getting healthier, so this is how I plan to start the regimen.”

Neal snorted. “Peter, this house reeks of bacon grease. Exactly how did you start off your day of eating healthier. I’ll bet there were a few eggs thrown into that mix as well as maybe a bagel slathered with  cream cheese!”

“El buys lite cream cheese,” Peter objected. “You know, that Neufchatel stuff that doesn’t have as many calories or fat.”

“Yeah, but that’s just a spit in the ocean,” Neal teased.

“I can work off the calories on the court,” Peter justified his choice.

“Do I get a vote in this?” Neal asked hopefully. “There’s a rock-climbing wall that just opened in downtown Manhattan. That type of exercise will build muscle tone and strength in anybody’s flabby body.”

“I am not _flabby_ ,” Peter objected. “And, the answer is no, Neal. I certainly don’t need you fine-tuning your cat burglary skills.”

“I think I still hate you, Peter,” Neal mumbled under his breath, repeating the same sentiment he had expressed earlier.

“What was that!?” Peter demanded.

“I said, let’s go so that we can sweat our asses off. We’re wasting good sunlight,” Neal grumbled.

“That’s what I thought you said,” Peter smiled evilly.

So, that was how Neal found himself scurrying across the asphalt bouncing a ball and slewing around his handler. Peter definitely had the height advantage, but Neal was quicker as he feinted and darted until he was close enough to sink a shot. He wasn’t a novice at this game. During his younger days in St. Louis, he had spent his spare time perfecting his billiards skills as well as participating in the occasional pick-up game at the local rec center.

Peter’s avid competitiveness was quite evident from the start, and each time Neal outmaneuvered him, the older man pushed himself harder to take the lead. Neal noted the copious sweating as well as the labored panting and suggested they take a break, but Peter’s pride was on the line and he stubbornly shook his head. Neal had just sunk a basket and turned to pass the ball back to his handler when he became alarmed. The basketball had bounced off of Peter’s chest and rolled away. Peter looked confused for a second before crumbling to the court like the Colossus of Rhodes after that destructive prehistoric earthquake. Neal was immediately at his side to witness the ashen complexion and the confused stare on his handler’s face.

“Peter, tell me what’s happening!” Neal demanded. “Are you having chest pain?”

Peter didn’t answer. His eyes suddenly rolled up under his lids and his body became slack.

“Peter! Peter! Talk to me, Buddy,” Neal shouted as he pulled his cellphone from his back pocket and dialed 911.

The emergency operator answered on the first ring and Neal quickly told her about the situation. “We need help fast because I think this man is having a heart attack,” he stammered nervously.

“Is he breathing?” she immediately asked.

“I don’t think so,” Neal answered. “I don’t see his chest moving at all.”

“Now check for a pulse on the side of his neck,” the operator instructed calmly.

“Damn it,” Neal swore. “I can’t feel a pulse.”

“Sir, do you know how to begin CPR?” the voice asked. “You can put me on speaker and I can talk you through the process,” the woman explained.

“No, no,” Neal reassured her. “I think I can do this.”

“Help is on the way, Sir. Keep calm and start the cardiopulmonary resuscitation attempt. I’ll stay right here on the line with you until the paramedics arrive.”

Neal’s head was reeling and his brain told him that he should know this. During summers as a teenager, he had been a lifeguard at a country club pool to earn extra money. CPR was a mandated requirement for lifeguards. Neal just had to resurrect important information learned back in those days. The knowledge returned to him quickly—A, B, C—airway, breathing, and circulation. Right, first he had to position Peter properly and open his airway. Neal made sure that Peter’s back was flat on the hard court, all the while begging, “Come on, Buddy, just open your eyes and tell me this is all a sick prank.”

Of course, it wasn’t, so next he tilted Peter’s head back slightly, lifted his chin, and then let his own hands roam down the sternum of the unresponsive man’s chest. Neal quickly located the end of the bony structure and then moved his hand up to the center of the thorax. He placed his other hand on top of the first, interlaced his fingers, and locked his own forearms before pushing down approximately two inches with the heel of his hand. He chanted the count in his head—one and two and three and four—each compression delivered before even a second had elapsed. When he reached 30, he stopped, repositioned Peter’s head, pinched his nostrils, and let his own mouth form a seal around lips that were cold and flaccid. Neal breathed deep into his handler’s lungs twice, gratified to see Peter’s chest rise and fall each time. Then it was back to the compressions.

Neal was on autopilot, not thinking but rather reacting like a robot. His ears picked up an indistinct voice coming from his phone, but the only sound he really wanted to hear was a siren announcing that help was on the way. Finally, he heard that blessed wailing and sensed feet hustling toward him.

“How long has he been down?” a burly EMT asked as he pulled out a stethoscope and placed it on Peter’s chest.

“Um, not sure,” Neal stuttered. “I started CPR right after I called 911, whenever that was. Right now, it seems like that happened hours ago.”

The second EMT had arrived with an AED, an acronym for a portable defibrillator. “Are you going to try and shock him?” Neal asked apprehensively.

“First we have to see if he even has a heart rhythm,” Neal was told as the first responders set about their tasks. “If he’s in asystole, which means absolutely no heart activity, it won’t work, so our first priority is to push some drugs to get some kind of rhythm going.”

Neal knelt in frozen terror as Peter was intubated, had an IV line placed, and then had his heartbeat tracing displayed on a small monitor after leads had been adhered to his chest. One of the personnel declared that Peter was in pulseless ventricular tachycardia, and a frightened young man watched in tormented horror as electrical shocks were delivered that caused Peter’s body to tense and jerk.

While the second EMT kept providing ventilations via a compressible ambu bag, his partner wheeled over a gurney and looked Neal’s way. “You want to ride along with your friend? We’re going in hot, so we’ll be at the local hospital within minutes.”

“Yeah,” was all that Neal could manage as he scrambled to collect his own phone and Peter’s belongings lying beside the court. He thrust the agent’s wallet, phone, and keys hastily into his jacket and climbed aboard the emergency vehicle. The EMTs had called ahead, so a whole little entourage of white-coated gladiators met the ambulance ready to fight the good fight to save their new patient’s life. Peter was red-lined through the doors and quickly disappeared from Neal’s sight.

Now, an unsteady young man became suddenly numb and cold because he felt like a fish out of water. A nurse noticed the shocked paralysis and took pity on him. “Was the patient who was just brought in a relative of yours?” she asked softly.

“No, not a relative. He’s my …..,” Neal mumbled, but stopped because he was trying to find the right word. Handler or federal watchdog just didn’t sound right. “He’s, well, he’s my friend,” a torn Neal finally answered, knowing that was the honest truth, as shocking as it was to admit.

“Let me get you a cup of coffee, Sir, while your friend is being treated, and perhaps you can help me fill out some admitting paperwork,” the woman smiled encouragingly.

“Sure,” Neal answered gratefully. After he was seated in a little cubicle, he pulled out Peter’s wallet and produced a driver’s license and even a little insurance card tucked away in a slot. However, he was absolutely no help when it came to knowledge of Peter’s allergies, medications, or his medical history.

“His wife, Elizabeth, will know all that stuff,” he told the nurse. “She’s out of town right now and I haven’t called her yet.”

“Honey, perhaps you should do that as soon as possible,” the nurse said gently. “Mr. Burke’s wife needs to be here to make medical decisions regarding her husband’s care.”

“Right, I get that,” Neal answered, as he thought about _Do Not Resuscitate_ manifestos and precise _End of Life_ dictates. It suddenly made him feel queasy as it hammered home the dire gravity of this situation. “I’ll call Peter’s wife right now,” he promised.

Thankfully, Elizabeth was level-headed and strong. Neal was appreciative of her fortitude because he truly didn’t know how he would deal with hysterics during a phone conversation. He was just relieved that Peter’s loving wife was already physically preparing to leave Upstate New York to be by her husband’s side, and another person would be sharing Neal’s heavy burden. “Tell him to hold on until I get there, Neal,” she pleaded. “Tell him I’m coming!”

Neal didn’t notify anyone else. He simply sat like a zombie and wondered when he had grown so attached to his keeper. It had been an insidious thing, and now Neal felt blindsided. That was not the way it was supposed to go. Con men were never supposed to make lasting attachments with their marks, and Peter was always supposed to be a handy and useful mark who would enable Neal to find Kate. Now, it seemed as if that whole horrible soap opera had happened a lifetime ago. Kate was gone, but Neal had been left behind still wearing an ankle monitor. Besides the annoying bracelet on his leg, the only other constants that remained in his life were a little conspiracy theorist and Peter Burke.

After Neal’s fourth cup of stale coffee, a surgeon in blue scrubs came out to sit beside him. “Mr. Burke has sustained a life-threatening cardiac event precipitated by numerous blockages in his coronary arteries and veins. Our cardiopulmonary specialists have reviewed and evaluated the results of his films, and the entire team agrees that he needs to have emergency by-pass surgery as well as numerous stents placed to open up those blockages and keep them patent. I’ve spoken with Mrs. Burke by phone and apprised her of the situation and the need to proceed immediately. I have her verbal consent witnessed by another doctor, so the patient is being prepped for surgery as we speak. She wanted me to talk with you so that you are also aware of what is happening with her husband.”

“I know I’m not family,” Neal asked with a longing expression, “ but can I ask about his chances of making it through this?” 

The surgeon smiled. “We are very good at what we do, Mr. Caffrey, but, ultimately, it’s the head guy upstairs who decides when it’s time for someone to join Him. However, I can tell you, with absolute certainty, that your quick life-saving actions this morning bought us some valuable time to try to preserve your friend’s life. He wouldn’t be here now if it wasn’t for you.”

The doctor then gave Neal a comforting pat on the shoulder and disappeared back through those ominous doors leading to the unknown. Neal descended almost into a fugue state for hours. He watched people come and go through the emergency room, some alone and some accompanied by family or friends. He felt like he was marooned on an island in a sea of humanity not connected to anything. He compulsively ran his fingers over Peter’s belongings still tucked in his jacket pocket. The phone, wallet, and keys felt warm from his own body heat, and when he traced the metallic surfaces of those keys on a ring, it was as if a blinding lightning bolt had touched down to earth. Neal pulled out the tangle of house, office, and car keys, and then he eyed the distinctive little one that opened his anklet. It was as if Neal was standing outside of himself as he watched his fingers remove a means to his freedom. He quickly concealed it in his other pocket when he spied Elizabeth hurrying through the door. She grabbed onto Neal like a lifeline and hugged him tight.

“Have you heard anything?” she asked apprehensively.

“Nothing yet,” Neal said softly, “but then no news is surely good news,” he tried to reassure Peter’s other half.

“Right, right,” she agreed. “We just have to keep a positive outlook because this is Peter we’re talking about—big, tough Special Agent Peter Burke.”

It was a bold and courageous statement, but then El’s confidence suddenly left her as she finally allowed herself to let go. Neal was here, and she didn’t have to be the strongest person in the room. She sobbed into his chest and all he could do was hold her close. Eventually, El ran out of tears and used a tissue to blow her nose.

“You’re a hero, Neal,” she whispered. “The doctors told me everything you did when this heart attack thing happened. I can never thank you enough.”

“That’s a bit of an overstatement,” Neal argued. “I did what anybody would have done in the same situation.”

“Don’t disagree with a woman who is teetering on the cusp of histrionics, Neal. Just accept that you are, and always will be, my special  hero!”

Before Neal could open his mouth again, a nurse approached and told Elizabeth that Peter was out of surgery and his doctors were waiting to speak with her in the cardiac waiting room on the third floor. El grabbed Neal’s hand and dragged him along in her wake until they found the right place. They met with the physicians and were told that Peter had undergone a quadruple bypass and seemed to be stabilized. He was presently in recovery, still intubated on a ventilator, but if his vital signs remained within normal parameters, he would eventually be transferred to the CCU.

“You can certainly poke your head in for a minute, Mrs. Burke, but your husband is still unresponsive from the anesthesia. He will probably be disoriented for at least the next 24 hours, and that is not an unexpected result after being on the bypass machine. Don’t expect too much coherent interaction with him for at least the next day or so.”

“I’ll stay with you, Elizabeth,” Neal vowed.

“No, Sweetie, you’ve been here all day. I’ll be fine now that I know Peter is still with us.”

“Elizabeth,” Neal said pleadingly.

“No, don’t argue,” Peter’s wife answered resolutely. “Go home and rest and I’ll call you regularly to give you updates. Did you contact Reese Hughes to let him know about the situation? You shouldn’t have been here waiting all alone.”

Neal shook his head. “The only person I called was you. If Hughes knew, he’d send reinforcements and then he’d banish me, for sure.”

“He may not be the big, bad, heartless ogre you think he is,” El smiled. “I’ll contact him and bring him up to speed. Now off you go!”

Neal sighed as he handed her Peter’s personal belongings minus one very important element. “You’ll keep me in the loop?”

“Promise!” El said firmly.

~~~~~~~~~~

Neal had been right. He had barely reached June’s house when the call came through from Hughes. Neal suddenly found himself quarantined in his loft like a kid with measles since he had no handler overseeing him. Mozzie was sympathetic and arrived the next day with his backgammon set.

“Mrs. Suit tells me you saved her hubby’s life,” he remarked off-handedly.

Neal just shrugged, so Mozzie persisted. “There is an ancient Chinese proverb that says, _‘He who saves a life is forever responsible for it.’_   So, mon frère, that may complicate things for you.”

“You have a quote for almost everything, Mozzie,” Neal growled. “Most of the time, I think you just make them up.”

“I’m just sayin’….,” Mozzie trailed off.

~~~~~~~~~~

It had been two days of almost non-stop Mozzie, and Neal didn’t know why he hadn’t yet enlightened his friend about the key to the kingdom that was still in his possession. Maybe Neal really _did_ know why he had kept that secret from his cohort. Mozzie would be all over him to scramble onto the next jet plane, and Neal couldn’t leave while Peter was still in limbo. He just couldn’t be that harshly cold and unfeeling, could he? Neal knew he was really fucked up in the head. A year ago, he would never have hesitated. Every night in his bed, Neal struggled with his conscience, and every morning he was no wiser or decisive than eight hours before. Being confined to his quarters certainly didn’t help matters, and the only bright spots in his day were updates from Elizabeth. Peter was doing much better, healing quickly, and ambulating in the halls. Peter was bitching about green Jell-O and bland beef consume. Peter missed his dog and his own bed. Peter even said he missed Neal. He couldn’t tell his CI himself because Elizabeth refused to give her workaholic husband his phone. She was savvy enough to know that Peter would be hounding his White Collar team for information on his ongoing cases.

Nine days after his emergency surgery, Peter came back home to his townhouse in Brooklyn. He was temporarily marooned on the downstairs couch because negotiating stairs was only allowed once a day during his early convalescence. The Burke house, although out of Neal’s radius, was exempt from raising an alarm at the Marshals Monitoring Service, so the young con man took himself for a long overdue visit. Peter looked pale and he moved gingerly, but he still managed to give Neal a wry smile.

“You don’t have to say it; I know I look like shit,” he remarked drolly.

“I wasn’t going to say that,” Neal replied. “I think you look like a man who should be glad to be alive.”

“And I’m told that I have you to thank for that,” Peter grinned.

“I think those cardiac surgeons are the ones who deserve all the credit,” Neal said as he ducked his head and avoided Peter’s gaze.

“Listen, Peter, I would have come to see you in the hospital but Hughes put me in a time-out. He said he couldn’t trust me without someone watching my every move. He’ll probably raise hell when he finds out I came here today.”

“I’ll make sure to smooth it over,” Peter promised. “So, Neal,” the older man continued in a casual tone, “I suppose, since you were benched, you were unable to swan around to any of the high spots in the city during your little sabbatical from the FBI.”

“No, I didn’t go anywhere,” Neal said slowly as he stared hard at Peter.

“Well, that's a relief,” Peter replied with a little smile as he returned the stare.

After a long silence that became uncomfortable, Neal whispered, “You know, don’t you.”

Peter didn’t answer. He just kept looking fondly at his partner. Finally, Neal sighed and withdrew the smoking gun from his pocket and held it out to his handler.

“I was wondering if you’d finally get around to returning this,” Peter said mildly as he eyed the key.

“I could have made a copy, you know,” Neal said, just to save face.

“Of course, you could have,” Peter agreed. “Did you?”

When Neal shook his head, Peter looked pleased. “I believe you, Buddy, but tell me truthfully, why are you really still here?”

Neal sighed. “Mozzie says if you save someone’s life, you’re forever responsible for that life.”

“Do you think that’s the real reason?” Peter asked quietly.

“Probably not,” Neal admitted. “I guess I just don’t think you should kick a man when he’s down.”

“Good to know,” Peter actually laughed out loud as he splinted his incision with a small pillow. “Yes, very good to know.”


End file.
